A Wolf at the Gate
by Kyo-chan
Summary: Kimblee is assigned to a different post to begin his probation and the weather isn't the only thing that's cold. 3 of 6 in the Dead is the New Alive pre-story.


Title: A Wolf At the Gate  
Author: Kyo-chan  
Series: Post-Original Series/CoS (Elements from FMA:B)  
Rating: T  
Characters: Olivier Armstrong, Zolf Kimblee  
Summary: Kimblee is assigned to a different post to begin his probation and the weather isn't the only thing that's cold.  
Word Count: 1,411  
Notes: #3 in the series of stories. There are only spoilers if you haven't seen the end of the first series or Conqueror of Shamballah.  
AU: Dead is the New Alive

At six feet tall and as broad as most of her men, General Olivier Armstrong didn't need to try looking intimidating. She just was. In fact, she worked very hard to back up every threat her imposing form delivered so that she could always put her money where her mouth was. She couldn't afford for anyone to doubt her. Fear was usually the first step for any new arrivals, and if not that, then at least a healthy dose of intimidation.

Not this one.

Zolf Kimblee sat at the worn table in what served as her planning room, his hands folded neatly on the surface, posture relaxed as if he were right at home. Sweat gleamed on his brow, slid in swift droplets down the side of his face. After a hike up to the front doors of the stronghold in frigid mountain weather, the heat inside the room was oppressive. She'd done it to new recruits time and again, sometimes relished how they squirmed and bit back the urge to ask for water, wondering if she would take them to task for removing their uniform jacket. If this man was uncomfortable, not a trace of it showed on his face. The golden gaze trained on her reminded the general of a bear or a wolf, not unlike the feral beasts that prowled the woodlands near the fort.

Armstrong didn't take a seat in front of him, choosing instead to stand on the other side of the table. She studied him for several long, silent moments, and he did the same to her in return. She gave him credit for having balls, at least. Seeing him so well composed finally made her believe his background a little bit more. This was a man that could blow up bodies in the desert and finish out the day with a wink and a smile. No regrets. It would either be a really good fit here or a truly disastrous one.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Probation," the man replied in a voice like silk daggers. He was just as comfortable skipping any introduction or pretenses as she was.

"What did you do?"

"I killed a lot of people."

"That happens often in the military."

"I killed a lot of _soldiers_," he clarified.

It was nothing that she hadn't already read in the file that Mustang had sent prior to Kimblee's arrival. Hearing him _say_it with such confidence and nonchalance set her hackles up. Her eyes narrowed only slightly, pinned to him. "Why?"

The corners of the Crimson Alchemist's mouth twitched upwards, an infuriating reaction. "My file will tell you that I did it because I enjoyed it. That it did not matter to me who got caught in the explosions so long as there was an explosion to be had. My testimony was likely entered word for word regarding my love of the sounds, sights and smells of the chaos around me. Those words, as they were spoken during my trial, are true."

"You like playing games with words," Armstrong assessed, her patience fraying ever so slightly. "You talk like the upper brass, like you think you know everything and that you can dance around the truth with caveats and things that us lower people might miss. Those pretty words are useless here, and all they're doing is pissing me off." She placed her gloved hands on the table, leaning in so that her hair curtained her face, but she put the full weight of her glare down on him. He smelled like sweat and sulpher, a hint of cologne beneath those. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

"Of course, General. I would rather not waste any more of our time." Keeping his fingers intertwined, he leaned forward, inches from her face. "You use your reputation and your control in the same manner I use my words. And in your territory, your tactics will overrule mine. So, let me be very clear. When I killed all those men, when I was arrested and put on trial as a traitor and a comrade-killer, I believed every single word I just said. Our great Amestrian military saw fit to turn the State Alchemists into weapons, so why should they be surprised when that is exactly what they got? Does a rifle care where it is aimed to fire when the trigger is pulled? Does the blade know the difference between an ally's blood or an enemy's?"

"Call you what they will, _dog_, you still have a mind, don't you?"

"I do now."

Armstrong pulled back, crossing her arms over her chest. At last, he struck the heart of the matter, the one that had made little sense to her in Mustang's report. She was not an alchemist like her brother. She had no gift for the science and thus saw no reason to dabble in it. In her position, it was useful to know the basics, but the Flame Alchemist had mentioned something about a red stone, what it was and his belief that it had affected Kimblee when it was gifted to him by the commanders on the war front. It still sounded like a lot of superstitious bullshit, but Mustang had given the future of this man before her to Armstrong and the men of Briggs. Not a decision she could carelessly make, and the asshole had known it when he requested to send Kimblee there.

"Why should I believe you?"

Kimblee remained as he was, never looking away once. "It really isn't my place to tell you whether you should or you shouldn't. It's out of my hands, is it not? Mustang was very direct with me when he approved my release for probation. For whatever reason, he got himself involved, took the Stone from me and decided that I should be allowed probation. Here. Where your word is law and if you have even the slightest inclination that I will return to the kind of soldier I was in Ishval, I would be put down. Like a dog, to use your words. Have I gotten it right so far?"

"You seem to think you do. Mustang may have had other intentions."

"I doubt that," Kimblee snorted. "He's not that kind of man. He gains nothing by playing with either one of us. If he was just looking to dump me somewhere, he would have left me rotting in prison. No, I'm quite certain he means what he says and that he already has a plan."

Armstrong didn't respond for a long moment. It seemed as if Kimblee were well acquainted with Mustang's integrity, or was very good at guessing. She had a year to assess the man who had taken nearly as many lives of his own men than he did of the enemy. And if he was to be believed, the root of the problem was a little red rock that alchemy created, that made monsters of good men. For the first time since the civil war, she could feel the slightest twinge of gratefulness that Alex had been sent home very early in his tour. He hadn't been able to bear taking lives by the command of his superiors. To have been twisted and turned by the art that was passed down to him through their family for generations would have killed him inside. It made her quite glad that the top brass often left her winterborn stronghold be.

"You cross me once, Major Kimblee, and there won't be enough of you left to send back to Mustang. I'm already thinking of stories I could tell him for why you won't return to him."

The wiry man stood up with all the grace and power of the predator he was. Armstrong would have to watch him closely. That prowess had nothing to do with little all-powerful rocks. He was still a threat, still dangerous, all on his own. When he saluted her, she saw the marks on his palms, his alchemy permanently under his control, always ready. Oh yes, she would be watching him.

"You'll have to share some with me during my stay. I'm sure they'll be very entertaining to tell him when I go back to Central next year."

"Get out of my sight. You report to Major Miles at 0500 hours."

"Of course." He stepped past her. "Sir."

A good fit, she thought once more to herself, or a truly disastrous one.


End file.
